


A Subtle Shift in the Universe

by nerdylittledude



Series: Ugly Sweater !Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdylittledude/pseuds/nerdylittledude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the prequel to the entire Ugly Sweater ‘Verse – everything that came before. It’s how the apocalypse never happened, it’s how Sam met Sarah, it’s how Dean ended up living with Cas in a tiny studio apartment in Media, Pennsylvania. Dean and Cas are not in love. There are no ugly sweaters. It’s everything before.</p><p>[This prequel was written months and months after the series started and the story still completely makes sense if you skip this part! If the angst is too much, you can pass right on onto the fluff]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Subtle Shift in the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> This entire fic was written in notebooks! On long car rides, on the train, in a friggin airplane. I’ve been writing bits of it for months. And despite my best efforts, I couldn’t fit everything I wanted to tell! Everything else is up to your imagination (or, y’know, you could ask me ~ I don’t bite). This is the most dismal installment the series will ever see, that much I can promise you. Sorry for the lack of the trademark fluff, but it had to be done. Fic is written from multiple POVs, but only skips around between asterisks. 
> 
> Special thanks to my friend Jenn, who doesn’t even read the series, doesn’t watch Supernatural and obviously doesn’t ship Dean/Cas, for helping me transcribe a huge portion of this fic onto my computer. I probably never would have posted it without her. Thanks to Jayne for being my wonderful, amazing, fantastic, irreplaceable beta, whose contributions to this fic are innumerable. And thank you, readers, for making this so successful. Ugly Sweater ‘Verse would be nothing without you guys.

**The story begins just as Sam jumps into the pit in Swan Song.**

_“It's okay, Dean. It's gonna be okay.”_  
  
As soon as Dean hears these words, he knows without a fraction of a doubt that he will never be okay again. His face has been pummeled in; his left eye is so caked with blood that he can't open it. Now he's hearing his  _brother's_ voice, not some sick possessed version overcome by Satan— _his brother's voice_ , and it should be comforting... but it's not. Nothing could be further from the truth. His face is burning from the pain but it cannot begin to compare with the lump in his throat and the broken, battered thrum of his heart. He can feel his pulse beating in his ears.  
  
Up until this moment, up until the subtle switch between an archangel in control of Sam's body and Sam himself, hope existed. His brother's voice now tells Dean otherwise. Hope has snapped in two. It's ironic, really—they have what they wanted. They have the ending they had set their sights on, the ending they'd made the gamble for. Sam has enough control now to jump into the pit. Sam's carried through. Dean should be at least a little happy. They've won. If not happy, at least a little satisfied.  
  
But he's not.  
  
Because, in this moment, it hits him with the force of a truck: Sam is really going to do this. Sam is going to jump into a hole that will swallow him in  _eternal_ torment, suffering that will last centuries past Dean's time. There's no going back. If Sam had failed—if Lucifer had won, beat Michael and kept control of Sam's body—well, Sam would still be there. Sam could still be within reach, even if he was deep within the confines of a powerful being. Dean could fight for him, could _find_ a way to free his brother. Even if the world was falling down around them, Dean could save his little brother.  
  
That was the only hope Dean needed, really. Save the world, let it burn... at the end of the day Dean is nothing if not Sam's big brother. That's his job.  
  
 _“It's okay, Dean. It's gonna be okay.”_  
  
Dean's watching as Sam—with only the sheer will of his mind and his heart—saves the world. It almost unfolds like a movie and Dean can barely breathe. His brother falls into the abyss and Michael follows. For a split moment, Dean thinks of Adam, the injustice of it...but it doesn't matter to him. Not really. Certainly not  _now_.  
  
And then it's over. Just like that, the hole is gone and the world is devoid of scars, lacking any indication that the apocalypse came and went. Dean falls to his knees. There is no initial shock; there is no momentary lapse in pain. It all rushes to him at once. He sobs.  
  
The intended battlefield is empty. There is no Cas, there is no Bobby. Not a single living creature for miles is there to comfort him. Then it hits him, too, that he is _alone_. He doesn't have his angel or his old drunk. He's just a lost, tired man in a big field without a family. He's not a big brother, he's not the Righteous Man, he's not a son.  
  
Dean Winchester is nothing.

 

 

 

 

… And then, suddenly, he is again.

“Dean!” comes a hoarse voice from across the field, that of someone gasping for breath. It’s not the voice he wants desperately to hear – but it’s familiar, and it’s something. It’s _Cas_.

Dean can barely see through the puffiness of his wounded face, bruises forming bright black and blue – but he’d know that deep voice anywhere. He squints in its direction and catches sight of Cas. He tries to convince himself to care, to revel in this miracle, to latch onto the only family he has left – to do _something_ \- but Sam is gone and Dean is broken.

That’s when he looks a little harder, and his breath catches in his throat.

Cas is covered in blood, his trench coat soaked with it… but that’s not what gets Dean to his feet, what has him running the field like a football star. It’s – it’s Sam, and Cas is struggling to hold him up. He’s been staggering toward Dean, but he’s clearly gravely injured. Sam’s unconscious, with his arm draped over Cas’ shoulder, all his weight on the angel. He’s bleeding, too, and there are wounds all over his chest. When Dean gets close enough to see them, he notices that the wounds are _everywhere_ , and they are what look like a thousand tiny Enochian symbols engraved into the flesh of his chest. Dean doesn’t understand it or, at this moment, care about it.

“Is he breathing?” Dean demands, and Cas responds with a nod and sways on his feet. Then, his legs buckle under him and he falls – though he manages to keep Sam from falling too hard on the way down. Dean kneels down next to him, grabs Sam’s wrist and takes his pulse. His heart flips when he realizes that, yes, Sam is alive.

“Heal him!” Dean demands in a fierce growl, looking frantically at Cas, who involuntarily spits up a little blood and then looks at his own wounds, which are everywhere. They’re not Enochian, like Sam’s; they’re just bloody lines all over Cas’ flesh, like he’s been stitched back together somehow. Dean can’t tell how deep the wounds go.

“I would have already if I could, Dean,” he says in a whisper, confirming what Dean already knew. “I can’t even heal myself.”

“Alright,” Dean says firmly after a stunned moment, when the gears in his head start to turn again. He has no idea what the hell is going on, but he’s got Sam and he’s got Cas and it’s a fuck-lot more than he had five minutes ago. “I’ll pull the Impala around.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, just looks at Dean as if in a daze.

“Hang in there,” Dean whispers, turning and pausing a moment as he gets up. Cas continues to stare at Dean.

“Me?” he asks dubiously, in a slightly feeble voice which may or may not only sound as such because of his injuries. Dean is somewhat taken aback; he’d been talking to his unconscious brother. After a moment, though, he realizes he’s grateful that Cas was brought back, too. Sammy is the priority – Sam is _always_ the priority – but Cas is important, too.

“Yes, you,” Dean mutters, like it was his intention all along. He doesn’t stop to look at Cas’ expression before he sprints off to the car.

*

“Jesus, lady, I already told you – I don’t _know_ what the hell happened to my brother. Get out of my face.”

The nurse holding a clipboard wears an irritated, disbelieving look but she doesn’t persist anymore, just huffs an aggravated sigh and marches out. Dean has been in the position where he’s had to lie to officials – police officers, hospital workers, etc. – more times in his life than he can count. Some of his contrived answers have been clever and well thought out, and others have been as simple as this one – “ _I don’t know”_.

This is the first time that answer has ever been entirely true. He honestly does not even have the slightest idea what – or who – happened to Sammy. Sam and Cas shouldn’t be alive. No logic can be applied here; this makes less sense than Dean’s resurrection almost two years ago. The cuts all over Sam make even less sense. It’s all a big clusterfuck of unanswered questions… but Dean doesn’t care, right now. He could care less.

His brother is alive.

He’s in pretty bad shape though. Dean’s in a hospital room – God, he hates hospitals – with a chair pulled up beside Sam’s bed. Sam is unconscious with wires hooked up all over. He’s got bandages all over his torso, thick white ones that are changed by nurses regularly. He looks very much the worse for wear, but the doctor has assured Dean again and again that his little brother will be alright.

“Honestly, I have no idea how. The amount of blood loss alone…” The doctor had shaken his head, looking more than a little awed. “Let’s just say this – I have been working in this field for a long, long time. I don’t see very many miracles. This is one of them.”

Cas is in the hospital bed on the other side of the room, adjacent to the window. He is, apparently, more of a medical mystery than Sam. Every inch of his flesh from head to toe is covered in those seam-like cuts, like a rag doll. Likewise, he’s covered from head to toe in stitches the doctors promptly got to inserting. The process had taken hours.

The remarkable thing is the placement and nature of each cut. They’re all _deep_ and cause for major alarm… but none are so deep as to be untreatable. Furthermore, none of the cuts go into major veins or arteries; every single one carefully skirts around these vital areas. Cas surviving is, yet again, a miracle.

What is puzzling the doctors the most, though, is Cas’ healing rate. Of course, Dean is not surprised that Cas is healing up so well… but Cas seems as confused as the doctors over why his wounds are closing up so fast. Granted, it’s not the same as before, when his angel mojo could just seal up the wound like it never happened, but it’s faster than is humanly possible, certainly.

Cas woke before Sam, and Dean’s been grateful for the company. Cas is all drugged up for pain, but he’s more coherent than most would be under such high dosages. He just seems tired, if anything else.

“Why are you so surprised?” Dean asks when Cas is puzzling yet again over his recovery rate. “You’re an angel, dude.”

Cas furrows his brow when he looks at Dean.

“I’m not even sure about that, Dean. I can’t… I can’t feel any trace of my power within me, and I can’t feel heaven anymore. If my powers were stunted before, they’re…” Cas doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to. Dean understands the word Cas doesn’t want to say.

_Gone._

“Do you know what the marks on Sammy’s chest say? They’re Enochian, right?” Dean asks after they’re both quiet a moment. Cas furrows his brow.

“I haven’t gotten a good look, Dean. He’s been bandaged this whole time. Perhaps if I’m able to stand by the next time his bandages are changed, I can look. I’m not currently in the position to move.”

Dean scowls.

“Can’t you just x-ray vision through the bandages or something?” he says irritably. “This is kind of, y’know, _important._ We need to know what we’re up against here.”

“I told you, Dean,” Cas responds, and there’s fierceness, almost a growl, that hadn’t been there before. “ _I can’t sense my powers_. I can’t feel anything. I might as well be human. The only things I know I have for sure are my wings, and I can’t use them. I’m powerless.” He says the last part with a bitterness so strong Dean’s not sure what to say.

“You’ve got wings?” Dean asks stupidly after a beat, because what the hell do you say to _that?_ Dean’s trying to be sympathetic, to not fixate on how Cas’ current state is inconveniencing him. Key word, of course, being ‘trying’.

Cas looks at him like he’s just asked an absurd question. “Of course. How else could I appear at your beck and call whenever you summoned me, all this time?” Again, there is bitterness. Dean wonders, briefly, whether Cas regrets everything, all of it, yet. Dean has a feeling that if Cas doesn’t now, he will. He’ll probably leave, actually. Just as well, though. Dean’s fine if he has Sam.

“You mean your teleport thing is actually wings?” Cas nods.

“Yes. I can fly faster than the human eye can see. Did you never hear the –“

“Oh, the swooshy noise when you pop in and out. Yeah, that’d explain it.”

“Well,” Cas says, his gaze drawn away from Dean to the window, “You’ll probably never hear it again.”

Dean goes from ‘trying to be sympathetic’ to ‘freaking pissed off’ in a nanosecond.

“Oh, well _boohoo_ ,” Dean says, rife with sarcasm, “Play me a song on the world’s smallest violin. You’re not the one who jumped into hell. And, for the record, my brother’s still unconscious. So as far as I see it, you’ve got it pretty damn good.”

Cas tilts his head to the side, gives Dean the same curious look he’s been giving him since that first time they met, when he’d looked at Dean and summarized his entire existence in one sentence: _You don’t think you deserve to be saved._

“You’re angry,” Cas says now. It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

“Hell yeah I am. My brother’s hooked up to every damn machine in this hospital. They won’t tell me when he’s gonna wake up, if he’s-“

“He’s alive, Dean. Be thankful.”

“For how long?” Dean asks – and he realizes that’s the question that’s been eating away at him for hours. He doesn’t expect the way his voice cracks when he asks, and he clears his throat in an attempt to rein back his emotions. “How long until whatever son of a bitch saved him comes back for him? We don’t even know what we’re up against.”

“Ah. I see,” Cas says slowly, as though clarity has come to him, “You’re angry because you’re worried. Because you are Dean Winchester, and you lash out when you’re worried.” He doesn’t sound upset or accusatory at all; he sounds more like someone examining a specimen in a test tube or something. Like he’s finally figuring Dean out.

Dean’s not exactly sure how to respond to that, so he doesn’t.

“I’ll keep my complaints to myself,” Cas says, and he lies back down on his bed. He closes his eyes and squeezes his temples with his forefingers and – and holy _shit_ , if that isn’t the most human gesture Dean’s ever seen him do. And he’s seen Cas sleep, seen him at every stage of falling… but this, this tired gesture, it seems to put everything into perspective.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Dean says after a while, very quietly – because that’s what he does. Because he’s Dean Winchester, and he may be a dick but one thing he makes sure of is that Sam knows his big brother’s here and everything is going to be okay. He’s deciding here and now, though, that he might include Cas in that, too.

Either Cas has fallen asleep or he’s assumed that Dean is talking to Sam, but he doesn’t say anything in reply.

*

When Sam wakes up, Dean is asleep. It’s about two in the morning, and he’s sitting in a hospital chair pulled up to Sam’s bedside, face cradled in his arms on the mattress. Sam is stiff when his eyes open, and there is a great pain in his chest throbbing steadily, albeit dully, like a drum. His head feels like every hangover he’s ever had has been compounded into one pulsing ache.

But he’s alive.

His first thought is immediate fear; he _knows_ he’s in hell, knows there’s no way this is real. The cage must be some sort of psychological torture or something, designed to make him think he’s out in order to crush him later. It _feels_ like reality, though, and it’s throwing him off. The rise and fall of his brother’s back as he sleeps looks exactly as it should, as it always has. Sam’s starting to doubt himself, and he hates himself for it. He should be steeling himself for the inevitable crash, but he can’t help but hope… but then, Sam has always been one to hope.

“Hello, Sam.”

A voice from across the room makes startles Sam out of his thoughts. With a quiet sigh from the sheer pain of the effort, Sam looks over to see Castiel sitting up on his own bed, clad in an ugly hospital outfit and looking very frail. His head is tilted as he looks at Sam, eyes studious and calculating.

“You’re alive?” Sam asks – more like croaks, really; his voice is cracked. Images, memories rush at him. He remembers Castiel throwing an explosive at Michael. He remembers – he remembers Lucifer, with Sam’s own hand, snapping his fingers and blowing Cas into oblivion. Sam shudders, the tremor resonating through his core. Real or not, Sam is shaken by this angel’s appearance and overwhelmed entirely with regret.

Castiel nods. “As are you.”

“How?” Sam asks, because he’s exhausted and he knows that the apology on his lips right now won’t come out at all as convicting if he’s drugged up and half unconscious for it. Assuming this is reality and that the apology will even matter, which Sam continues to doubt.

“I am not sure,” Cas replies, predictably, “but I believe the markings engraved on your chest will explain.”

“Markings?” Sam asks, looking instinctively to his chest, only to find it heavily bound with bandages.  
  
“There are lacerations on your body in the shape of Enochian words. If I’m conscious when they change your bandage again, I’ll try to decipher them.”

“Conscious?”

“Yes. I am heavily drugged and my… sleep. Is erratic.”

“Drugged? – Sleep?” Sam repeats, stunned. He looks over Cas more closely in the dim lighting and sees the angel (– angel? Is he still an angel? –) more bandaged than himself and certainly the worse for wear. There are circles under his eyes and his hair is more of a mess than usual.

“Lucifer killed me,” Cas says, like Sam doesn’t already know, “and it seems someone pieced me back together. That person may have forgotten a few key components, however.”

“Components – like what?” Sam’s head feels aching and addled; his body wants to force him back to sleep, but he fights it.

“My Grace,” Cas responds wearily, matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” Sam says stupidly. He wants to muster up the strength to comfort Cas to tell him they’ll all get through this together... but he’s tired. Terribly and impossibly and indescribably tired. His eyelids flutter and shut.

“Sam?” Cas says, just as Sam’s eye close. Sam is barely able to make the effort of opening one eye.

“Yeah?”

“I am glad you’re okay.”

Sam means to say ‘You too, Cas’, but he’s not entirely sure he’s succeeded. The drugs pumping into his bloodstream through the IV are intent on pulling him under. In a dizzy haze of near-unconsciousness, he vaguely hopes that Cas at least got the idea.

*

“How’s Sam?” Dean asks Castiel the moment he wakes. Castiel is already awake. His eyes are bloodshot from a sleepless night – drugs or not, Castiel is not a being designed for sleep. He looks at Dean with half-lidded eyes. When he speaks, his voice is even deeper and scratchier than ususal.

“Yes,” he replies, “he woke briefly last night.”

“What?” Dean snaps sharply. His tone seems overly loud in wake of the awful pain in Castiel’s head. “Sam got up and you didn’t wake me?”

Castiel comes very close to cringing. His senses are overloading; he wishes very desperately that he could sleep. He looks at the ceiling for a moment and says nothing.

“Cas, what the hell?” Dean prompts.

“My apologies,” Castiel replies quietly, though he is not entirely sure he is in the wrong. “It did not occur to me.”

“Didn’t occur to you?” Dean says disbelievingly, rising to his feet and striding over to Castiel’s side of the room. “My _brother_ has been comatose for days and it ‘did not occur’ to you to wake me up?”

Castiel feels something very close to a lump in his through. So that’s where that expression originated. He swallows it down and replaces it with anger.

“I am _tired_ , Dean!” Castiel finally says in a scathing tone that barely sounds like it belongs to him. “I am tired, too! My vessel’s flesh exploded into a thousand misplaced atoms. Jimmy is gone. My Grace is gone. I cannot sleep but desperately need to. I am sorry, Dean. My problems may not be on your radar of importance, but they exist. I am imperfect.”

This effectively shuts Dean up. He stares at Castiel, mute and open-mouthed before he finally clamps his mouth shut.

I’m getting a drink,” he says gruffly and unceremoniously strides out of the room.

It is 8 in the morning, but Castiel does not protest.

*

Cas is asleep when Dean returns, cup of Irish coffee in hand. This is the most content Dean has seen Cas since… forever, really. Since the last time he saw Cas asleep. When this occurs to Dean, something in him churns – possibly, guilt. Before he can analyze this feeling, though, a voice cuts through his thoughts and nothing else matters.

“Dean?”

“Sammy!” Dean says, relief flooding through his system. He puts down his coffee immediately and races to Sam’s side. He ruffles Sam’s hair, like he used to when Sam was young. The smile on his lips is hesitant. A part of him is terrified that this might not be his brother – that it’s just Lucifer fucking with him, or something else entirely. When Sam’s weary eyes meet his, though, his doubt is all but eradicated.

“Are you real?” Sam croaks in a tiny, childish voice, and if he didn’t know it would cause his brother pain, Dean would have pulled him into a hug. Instead, he pushes Sam’s hair back off his forehead, an instinct left over from when Sam was little and sick.

“Yeah, Sammy, I’m real. I’m here,” he says quietly, “You’re gonna be okay.”

Sam shuts his eyes and leans into his brother’s touch.

“I’m afraid this is hell, Dean,” Sam whispers, and Dean can hear his brother’s fear in his voice. “That this might get taken away any minute.”

“No,” Dean says, using his I-Am-The-Oldest-So-I-Know-Everything voice. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Cas is gonna look at the marks on your chest and we’re gonna figure out what happened. I’m here, okay? I’m here.”

A nurse walks in holding a clip board. He raises an eyebrow at Sam and Dean. Dean knows that look – the one where someone is assuming they’re gay for each other. It’s enough to make Dean chuckle.

“Can I help you, Doc?” Dean asks, feeling better now that Sam is conscious and something normal is happening.

“Sam’s bandages need to be changed. I’m going to up his dosage temporarily so he’ll be asleep for it.”

Dean looks instantly panicked.

“He just woke up!” Dean says, glaring at the doctor.

“He needs as much rest as he can get in this state. The fact that he can wake up and have conversation shows his head is probably in good shape. He’ll make a full recovery, but he needs to sleep now.”

Dean bites his lip and looks at Sammy – then at Cas.

“Can we wait til he wakes up?” he asks, jerking a thumb in Cas’ direction. The doctor looks confused.

“Why would it make a difference if this man is awake or asleep?”

“‘This man’ is our friend,” Dean snaps. The nurse appears surprised. He raises the hand not in possession of the clipboard in a gesture of surrender.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize… no one is ever on that side of the room when I do my rounds. I assumed he had no visitors.”

Again, Dean feels something close to guilt, but he pushes it down. He has priorities, after all. Sam is always his priority. Besides, Cas can take care of himself.

“Yeah, well, he does. Me. And he should be awake for this. He needs to see it.”

“What? – most visitors are asked to leave the room when the procedure –”

The nurse shakes his head.

“That one – “Castiel”, is it? – has not been getting enough sleep to sustain his injuries. Let him sleep while he can. Really, sir, I can assure you that the procedure –“

“He doesn’t need sleep, he’s an angel,” Dean snaps.

The nurse stares at him blankly,

“I mean, he’s an angel about these things, always lookin’ out for others, he –“

“No. I’m upping his dosage to jeep him under if we can. We’ll be changing Sam’s bandages in 20 minute. I’ll ask the doctor if you can stay as long as you behave yourself.”

Dean curses under his breath but finally nods and gives the nurse a curt nod and a mumbled thanks.

*

Dean ends up taking a picture of Sam’s wounds on his cell phone. Two nurses and one doctor all look at him with matching expressions each utterly judgmental, but Dean doesn’t care. Cas sleeps through the whole thing, and Dean can’t afford to wait for the wounds to heal up completely in hopes that Cas will be conscious for the next time. The symbols might become indecipherable, and Dean will not abide that.

When Cas wakes, Dean wants nothing more than to pounce and demand a translation, but he tries to listen to his better judgment and not be a _total_ dick. Instead, he pours Cas a cup of water when he hears the sort-of-angel stirring.

“I figured coffee wasn’t a good idea,” he says with an easy smile that is a little more than half-fake. Cas doesn’t reply, just looks straight at Sam.

“Those bandages are new,” C says. It’s a statement, not a question. “I slept through it. I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean takes a moment to appreciate the fact that Cas’ priorities seem to line up with his own. His smile is more authentic, now. He holds up his cell phone and shakes it, indicating victory.

“No worries, man. I got a picture.”

“Pass it to me, Dean,” Cas says immediately. Dean considers protesting, insisting that Cas take a minute to relax and make sure he’s thinking okay, but he’s too eager. He hands the phone to Cas.

Cas scans the phone with his eyes and Dean hopes for the best. He waits with bated breath as Cas appears to read the same line over and over. It’s nerve-wracking.

“Well?” Dean asks insistently. Cas looks up – and, to Dean’s surprise, there is some shadow of a smile on the otherwise stoic would-be angel’s face.

“It’s a protection symbol – a seal on the Cage.”

“Like one of Lilith’s 66 seals? I thought she broke all of those,” Dean tries to keep his fear down and his voice level.

Cas shakes his head.

“This is a different type of seal. It’s not to keep Lucifer in – it’s to keep everything else out. ‘May no man or any other living thing in Creation pass into this place, save for the beings for which it was crafted.’ The Cage was never meant for mortal souls, Dean. Someone built in a safety mechanism – a seal.”

“So the marks -”

“The seal split Lucifer’s Grace from Sam’s body and soul. It seared through Sam’s flesh when it ripped Lucifer out.”

“So basically you’re saying that this is a no-strings-attached ‘get out of jail free’ card?” Dean asks, crossing his arms – a defensive stance. He’s closing in on himself, disbelief making his muscles taut and his head begin to pound. Winchesters don’t get no-strings-attached _anything._ The Winchesters are cursed. There’s always a catch.

“It would seem so,” Cas replies, offering the phone back to Dean. Dean doesn’t take it.

“Read it again.”

Cas glares at Dean.

“I already have,” he says tersely, “there’s nothing more than what I’ve told you.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Yeah? Well, what about you? Why are you alive?”

Cas flinches like the question stings – and, well, yeah, Dean thinks he should have phrased it differently. He’s glad Cas is alive; it just makes no sense.

“I’ve stopped questioning it,” Cas says, finally breaking eye contact with Dean and looking out the window. “It’s not as though it hasn’t happened before.”

Cas has a point, but Dean doesn’t want to acknowledge it.

“My brother and you back out of nowhere – at once? Too good to be true. I’ll figure out what’s going on myself. You obviously don’t give a shit.”

Instead of getting angry, Cas just heaves a heavy sigh.

“The apocalypse has been averted. Sam is alive. I…”Cas trails off, as though trying to decide where he fits into the sentence. “You have your best-case scenario, Dean,” Cas concludes, optioning not to complete the sentence altogether.

“There’s a catch. There’s always a catch.”

Cas closes his eyes and leans back against his hospital bed, which is inclined slightly forward.

“Believe whatever you want, Dean. There’s nothing we can do either way. I don’t see why we can’t try to enjoy the calm before the storm – if there is a storm.”

“When the storm comes – and it _will_ come, it always comes – I want to be ready. No one’s taking Sam again.”

Cas opens his eyes and looks at Dean. He doesn’t say anything; he just _looks_. Dean feels uncomfortable.

“And you, I mean,” Dean adds awkwardly, because he figures maybe that’s what the look is about. And to Dean’s surprise, Cas laughs. It’s more of a hollow, awful chuckle, really, and the sound feels all wrong. They’re both silent a moment, just looking at each other. Finally, once it’s gone well past the ‘weird’ level, Dean forces an easy smile onto his face.

“You look like Frankenstein, dude,” he says, gesturing to the multitude of stitches all over Cas’ skin.

“I don’t understand that reference,” Cas says blankly. Dean’s laugh is now honest.

“We’re gonna have a monster movie marathon when all this is over,” Dean says, trying to break the tension in the room. It sort of works. Cas’ bitter, kicked puppy look has waned a bit, at least,

“I need rest, Dean,” is all Cas replies. He adjusts the incline of the hospital bed until it’s lying flat. He flicks off the lamp beside his bed and closes his eyes. Dean’s pretty sure Cas is only pretending to sleep, but there’s not much he can do but sit wearily in the chair beside Sam’s bed and wait for his brother to wake up.

*

Six days pass and the “storm” doesn’t come. What does come is a steady recovery from both Sam and Cas. As days pass, they’re awake and alert during the day more and more often. Sam sleeps at night and Cas… tries. Although his wounds are healing, he looks increasingly haggard as time goes on. Dean figures the guy gets about four hours of sleep each night – if that.

The day Sam and Cas are transferred from IC to normal hospital rooms, Dean gets a phone call. His first inclination is to ignore it; no one ever calls unless they need saving, and Dean has no intention of saving anyone today. He happens to glance at the caller ID, though… and his heart drops to his stomach. It’s Jodi Mills. She’s probably calling to inquire about Bobby. Dean doesn’t know how to tell her that Bobby’s dead. Sam looks at Dean and raises his eyebrows in question.

“Jodi,” Dean says in reply to dam’s unspoken inquiry, and tosses it to Sam. Sam answers immediately.

“Hey, it’s Sam.” He replies. Dean sits back in his chair and closes his eyes, squeezing his temples. On the other side of the room, Cas sits up and leans over, curious.

Sam’s expression is pensive and intense as he listens to whatever it is Jodi’s saying. He’s quiet; Dean almost wishes he’d answered the phone himself.

“So he just… showed up?” Sam asks unsurely. “On your doorstep?”

He’s quiet as Jodi responds.

“Is he okay?” – another pause – “Can we see him?” Sam sounds excited, now; he’s sitting straight up and his eyes are bright.

“…Oh. Well, no,” he says after a pause, “Oh. Yeah, I guess not. A couple weeks, yeah.” His expression has faded a bit, but it brightens again at whatever Jodi says next. “That’d be awesome! Yeah, do that. Thanks, Jodi. Thank you.” A pause. “Alright, keep us posted. See ya – hopefully soon.” Sam hangs up after that with a smile on his face. Both Dean and Cas look at him curiously. He’s practically beaming when he says,

“Bobby’s alive.”

*

Apparently Bobby showed up on Jodi Mill’s front porch in about the same condition as Cas was – covered in thin crisscrossing wounds, like some sort of morbid patchwork doll. He’d only managed to stagger forward slightly before falling unconscious in Jodi’s doorway. She’d rushed him to the hospital immediately, and there he’s been ever since. Unlike Cas, Bobby doesn’t have the remnants of angelic healing powers – his recovery has been much slower. Only recently has he been awake at all, and even then the painkillers have made him incoherent when he _is_ awake. Today is the first day Jodi could get him to write down Dean’s number.

Sam and Cas aren’t healed enough to leave the hospital, much less travel all the way to South Dakota. Likewise, Bobby’s only begun in recovery – a trip to Detroit is out of the question. The only thing to do now is wait.

Dean’s driving himself crazy trying to figure out what they’re up against – because surely they’re up against _something_. Visiting hours are more restricted outside the ICU, so Dean’s been motel hopping when he’s not in the hospital. Dean wants to research, but he knows there’s nothing anywhere that can explain this. He’s pretty sure it’s unprecedented. It makes his skin itch, sitting in an empty motel room, _waiting_.

Castiel’s stitches are eventually removed and Sam is taken off the IV. Miraculously, both men’s scars have begun to fade. Texts from Jodi report the same of Bobby on her end. It’s undoubtedly a supernatural kind of healing; Dean wonders why he’s the only one concerned.

Sam and Cas finally get discharged, armed with painkiller prescriptions and instructions to take it very, very easy for the next couple weeks. They go to the nearest diner to celebrate, and Dean momentarily forgets to worry. He orders pie and laughs with his brother, and everything feels incredibly normal. Cas doesn’t smile – he never does – but he doesn’t seem unhappy. For the first time in a long time, Team Free Will is okay.

*

The other shoe never drops. They visit Bobby as soon as they’re able; he’s discharged soon after. Everyone goes home to Bobby’s house and Jodi is thanked extensively. A week passes, then another, of all of them taking it easy while their bodies heal. The scars all fade. Dean keeps waiting.

Over a month after the apocalypse never happened, Dean starts to wonder if there’s even a storm to be waiting for. Finally, Cas confronts him.

“Do you remember what I first told you when I met you, Dean?” Cas asks. They’re both seated at Bobby’s kitchen table with mugs of coffee, though Cas doesn’t seem very interested in his.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You mean the cheesy line about Perdition? I’ve been meaning to tell you, man, the whole ‘gripped you tight’ part was a little gay.”

Cas furrows his brow, looking entirely confused. “I am utterly indifferent o sexual orientation,” he says blankly. He goes on, “I wasn’t referring to that part – something else. I told you that good things _do_ happen, Dean.”

Dean inwardly squirms. He knows where Cas is going with this.

“Yeah. And then your dick angel buddies set the apocalypse on me.”

Cas sighs.

“Bad things happen, too. That much we have proof of. But – you’re here, Dean. You’re not in hell. I consider that a very good thing.”

“Do you have a point to this, Cas?” Dean asks, more sharply than intended.

“Yes,” Cas replies, just as sharply as Dean. “This new beginning is a gift. Accept it.”

And that’s it, that’s all he says. He stands and takes his cup to the sink and drains it before walking away.

Dean doesn’t know what to think.

*

It’s a couple weeks later while they’re all playing Uno around Bobby’s kitchen table that Dean decides he’s had enough. He tosses his cords haphazard on the table and sits back in his seat. The other three look at him curiously.

“You’re all, like, better – right?” Dean asks, gesturing at Sam, Bobby and Cas.

“I think so,” Sam says slowly, like he’s not sure where Dean’s going with this.

“Considering an archangel exploded me into a million bits, yeah, I’m doin’ good,” Bobby responds.

Cas stars at Dean like he’s just been asked a very offensive question.

“My Grace is gone. I can barely teleport short distances. I can’t heal – or smite. I’m powerless. What is your definition of ‘better’?”

Dean scowls. “Don’t bitch at me because your Dad’s a dick, Cas. I meant better like not half-comatose and in pain better. I’m asking if you can walk, run… fight.”

Cas shrugs. Dean’s not sure if he’s ever seen Cas do that before. It looks incredibly human.

“In that case, I am ‘better’.”

Sam frowns.

“Why do you want to know if we can fight, Dean?” he asks cautiously.

“I want to hunt again, Sammy. I want things to go back to normal. This?” he gestured to their game of Uno, “This is driving me friggin crazy. If you guys are all better, let’s get back in the game!” Dean looks hopefully from face to face. To his surprise, he sees them all exchanging a serious look.

“Dean –” Sam starts to say. Dean leans forward, resting a forearm on the table. He narrows his eyes.

“Am I missing something here?”

“Dean,” Sam starts again, “Can I – Can I talk to you? Alone?”

Dean nods stiffly and stands without ceremony. He heads out the back door and, after a moment, he hears Sam, rise to his feet and follow after. The door slams shut behind Dean, then again after Sam follows after.

“Well?” Dean asks skeptically. Sam takes a deep breath.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a couple weeks now.”

Something sinks in Dean’s stomach already, but he refuses to acknowledge it.

“Which is?”

Sam takes another steadying breath.

“I want to go back to college, Dean.”

Dean’s head immediately screams ‘ _no, no, no!’._ Out loud, he says, “What?”

“We saved the world, Dean,” Sam says a little helplessly, “What more do we owe it? We… Dean, there was always something. First we had to find Dad – then we found out I was psychic, then you had your deal, you went to hell – you went to _hell_ , Dean. We had Lilith’s seals and finally the friggin Judaic apocalypse. There was always something, Dean. Always something. What were the odds we’d ever make it out of this alive?”

“Zero to none,” Dean says quietly.

“Exactly. But we did. I jumped into Lucifer’s cage and here I stand, not a scratch on me.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point I I’ve been given a second chance, Dean! I’m taking it. I want to go to school, get a degree. Fall in love, have kids –”

“The apple pie life,” Dean says flatly.

“Yes. I think I’ve earned it. Hell, Dean, we’ve _both_ earned it. You could –”

“So after everything, you’re just gonna leave? Pack up your shit and ship off to Stanford and leave m – leave this life? I thought we were family.”

Sam runs a hand through his overly long hair anxiously.

“Come with me, Dean.”

“What?”

“Come with me! Not Stanford – NYU. You’d love the city –”

“What, and live like a civilian? Get a job, 9 to 5, clock in and out? We’re _hunters,_ Sam. We _save_ civilians”

Sam shakes his head.

“It doesn’t have to be like that. We saved the world. Give yourself a break.”

Dean laughs, bitter and hollow, and shakes his head.

“Go do your thing, college boy. Leave. That’s what you’re good at.” There’s a stiff set to Dean’s shoulders, a tight smile etching its way onto his lips. He knows this feeling. It’s a dark, hollow and bitter thing, and it settles on Dean’s muscles like a dead weight. The feeling has a name.

_Abandonment._

“Dean, you don’t mean that.”

“When do you start?” Dean snaps, ignoring that.

Sam swallows.

“In the fall.”

“So – what, two months from now?”

“I, uh,” Sam looks at the ground. “More like one month. Orientation and dorm assignment is in August.”

Dean forces himself to unclench his fists; it’s a very intense effort. He seriously wants to punch his brother hard on the jaw.

“You’ve already been accepted, then.”

Sam hangs his head.

“Yes.”

“Which means you’ve been applying to places for weeks.” Dean’s voice is deadpan, but his gaze is sharp-edged and laced with challenge. The voice in Dean’s head isn’t nearly as bold. In his mind, the statement comes out as a whimpering question, a quiet plea that almost begs that such a betrayal isn’t true.

A pause. Then, “Yes.”

For a moment, Dean doesn’t speak. He can’t; it feels like his words have been punched from his throat. He briefly thinks of Ruby, and demon blood, and keeping secrets and his heart _aches_. There’s something about secrets that says ‘I don’t trust you’, and the idea of it stings. Especially now – especially after _everything_.

“Thanks for the head’s up,” he says with an obviously pissed off smile. “Really appreciate it. Really thoughtful of you.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you, Dean,” Sam says looking up and meeting Dean’s eyes. He’s got that classic puppy dog pout on his face, the one that Dean’s gotten so familiar with over the years.

The one he’s going to miss.

“Yeah? Well, here’s my head’s up: I’m leaving.”

“Wait – what?”

“I’m not sitting around waiting for you to take off on me. I’m out.”

 “Come on, Dean,” Sam says, but Dean is already on his way back in. Cas and Bobby look up at him expectantly, but he looks past them, keeps walking. He beelines to the guest bedroom he and Sam have been sharing and opens the closet. Time to pack. He stares at the closet a long, long moment. His t-shirts are interspersed with flannel shirt after flannel shirt. For each pair of his own jeans, there is a pair that is much longer. His hands tremble on the knob of the closet doors. This is not a sight he will ever see again. His brother is leaving.

Dean refuses to cry. For one, it’s a pansy move and Dean’s got way too much dignity for it. As he pulls shirt after shirt from their places, he tells himself that he’s through with crying over this damn little brother of his. He tosses his jeans onto the bed beside the shirts – he doesn’t have many clothes, really – and tries to keep his mind blank. Sam can do whatever he wants. Dean tells himself he doesn’t care. After he stuffs everything he owns into a duffel bag, he sits on the bed and stares at the wall. His eyes are red.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean nearly leaps out of his skin. The room’s occupancy has abruptly gone from one to two. While Cas’ teleportation powers may be draining, he’s still able to pop from room to room. Despite the fact that he’s been living with this for about two months, it never fails to catch Dean off guard.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Cas,” Dean snaps and gives a panicked swipe his eyes – and, yeah, goddamn, they’re wet.

“What? – Oh. My apologies. I think I’m overusing the power because I fear it will be gone soon.”

Dean feels that familiar surge of guilt again. He knows full well that Cas is, if they’re being honest with themselves, human now – because of Dean. He remembers the words said angrily between blow in an alley: _‘I rebelled for this? I gave_ everything _for you!’_ It was a sentiment made in anger, yes, but Dean thinks it probably still stands. Sure, the apocalypse was averted… but Cas probably didn’t realize how much he was giving up for it. For Dean. Now Cas is here and human and lost and Dean has that on his shoulders.

These are too many feelings to deal with at once, so Dean shoves the guilt down. After all, he’s leaving and he won’t have Cas’ big blue eyes around to make him hate himself any further. It finally occurs to Dean that he’s losing his best friend, now, as well as his brother. He’ll think about that later.

“Yeah, well, knock on wood. Maybe you’ll get to keep it. But, uh – is there a reason you’re in here?”

“I came to tell you that I’m coming with you,” Cas says, looking Dean firmly in the eyes.

“What?” Dean says stupidly, sputtering.

“You asked if I was well enough to fight. I am and I will, if you teach me. I am coming with you.”

 _Ah._ Cas, ever the soldier, come to stand by his duty. Dean snorts, giving Cas what might have been an amused look if he wasn’t so goddamn tired. He has no room for a doey-eyed angel with a sense of obligation. “Cas, I appreciate it, but –“

“No. I’m not asking. I’m accepting your offer, whether it still stands or not. I will not be left, Dean.”

“Cas-”

“If it’s an excuse, swallow it, Dean. I’m human. I’ve never been this vulnerable in my life. For better or worse, you’re _all I have_. Forgive me for being insistent.”

Dean is stunned silent. Cas is innately reticent, so when he speaks at length, it’s impossible not to listen. His words are heavy and loaded and Dean has no idea how to react. _‘You’re all I have’_. Those four words bring a blast of reality that hits Dean square in the chest with the dull blunt force of a hammer. The guilt that has been ebbing at the edges of his mind comes flooding in. He is now painfully aware that Sam is no longer his only responsibility. He’s got a fallen angel on his hands, and he has no one to blame but himself.

It’s a long moment before he speaks again.




“I have four articles of clothing and no duffel bag. I thought it best to add my things to yours.”

Cas is not exaggerating. Cas used to be able to use his angel mojo to keep his vessel squeaky clean; he never needed more than his rumpled suit and dirty trench coat. That outfit, needless to say, is long gone. It was blood soaked, clinging to his skin and had to be cut off when he got to the hospital. Upon discharge from the hospital, Dean had given him two of his old t-shirts and a pair of jeans. A quick Walmart run for a couple pairs of boxers had been the end of that.

Dean makes a mental note to replace the trench coat.

“Alright, well, go get your –“no sooner has Dean begun the sentence has Cas already disappeared. It’s disorienting, like it always is. He waits for Cas to pop back in, muscles taut in anticipation for the inevitable surprise of Cas returning. To his surprise, when Cas returns, it’s through the door.

“Decided not to be a dick and enter the room like a normal person?”

“No. I wasn’t able to teleport.”

“Not able…?”

“I’m losing the ability. I don’t want to talk about it.” Cas doesn’t say anything further about it, but his despair is evident in the quiet clip of his voice and the way his shoulders are hunched. He tosses Dean his small bundle of clothes; Dean catches it and adds it to his duffel bag.

“Let’s go,” Dean says, heading for the door.

Cas hesitates.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try to talk to Sam first?”

“No,” Dean says tersely, narrowing his eyes at Cas. “And don’t mention Sam again.”

“Sam is my friend,” Cas retorts sharply. “I want him to be happy.”

“He made his choice,” Dean says icily.

Cas sighs.

“You are intrinsically stubborn.”

At this, Dean flashes a cocky smile.

“That’s the Winchester way, man.”

“Then, may I never be a Winchester.” Cas finally follows Dean, though, and they head toward the back door.

“Too late, Cas,” Dean says, holding the door open for Cas, “You already are.”

*

Their first motel in a series of motels is one of the grimiest Dean has been to. He figures it’s best to start Cas off with the worst, so he knows what he’s getting into. To his credit, Cas doesn’t complain, not even when he finds an incriminating white stain in his clearly unwashed covers or when a roach sneaks uncomfortably close to his toothbrush. Dean rewards Cas’ valiant efforts with stellar greasy diner food and equally stellar pie.

Dean spends the whole second day after they’ve left Bobby’s searching for a case. Cas is inexplicably gone for a decent part of the day. He returns unannounced in a gush of unseen wings with their covers, sheets, and clothes. They all smell clean; the scent of Tide fills the room.

“You did laundry?” Dean asks, looking up from the laptop he’d promptly purchased once they left. Sam and his laptop aren’t around anymore. It’s the other reason they’re in this shitty motel; the laptop was damn expensive.

“There is a laundromat nearby,” Cas says with a shrug. He dumps Dean’s laundry onto his bed, then hands Dean a newspaper article. Dean looks at it skeptically before he reads it over twice.

“Sounds like vampire activity,” Dean says, looking up at Cas with a grin. “Nice work, Cas. That’s about a day’s drive from here, not too bad.”

Cas sighs and takes a seat on his dingy motel bed.

“I’m not prepared to fight vampires, Dean. I’m not prepared to fight anything. I’m powerless.”

Dean is starting to realize that human Cas is kind of a downer. He’s seriously hoping Cas stops moping soon – Dean can barely deal with his _own_ angst, let alone Cas’. He tries to play it down, make Cas feel like he’s being melodramatic. He rolls his eyes.

“Play me a song on the world’s tiniest violin,” he replies, “I’m going to teach you, dude. Duh. You seriously think I’d let you fight vampires without being able to protect yourself?”

Cas is silent and looks away.

Dean frowns. “You did, huh?”

Cas shrugs.

“I’m not Sam,” he says, like that explains it.

… In a way, it does.

*

He does teach Castiel. He teaches him everything he knows with surprising patience, and Castiel is grateful. Their first hunt goes easily enough, with no complications. Castiel finds that angel blades are not so different from human ones. He beheads one vampire of the three they find together, and fancies he sees a flicker of pride on Dean’s face.

The days go on like this. Dean is not unkind, but he is not warm, either. His training methods are impersonal, as is his praise. Castiel soaks it up, anyway. There is none of their old affinity, no trace of the easy friendship they used to share. Castiel thinks that the apocalypse has broken Dean. To have gained and lost his brother so quickly has had its toll on him.

Castiel knows that Dean’s self-esteem has reached new lows. It makes his heart ache in the way only a human heart can. It pains him to know that the Righteous Man, this man who helped save the world – this man still does not believe he deserved to be saved. Castiel wants to tell him again, remind him that _God commanded it_ … but neither of them believes in God anymore. Castiel is not sure if that’s figuratively or literally anymore, on his part.

Castiel is not sure when Dean’s nightmares started – but he’ll never forget the first night he’s made aware of them. Dean is asleep and Castiel is not; sleep evades him still every night. While humans are built for sleep, angels are not. Castiel may be human now, but he is still wired like an angel. Sleep is so foreign that he thinks about it far too often, too deeply. As any insomniac knows, that is the problem in itself.

So Castiel is wide awake, facing down the ceiling, when he hears Dean whisper in his sleep. The words are garbled and Castiel can’t understand them but he can hear the distress in Dean’s voice. Dean shifts in his sleep and then shifts again, legs twitching. His words fall silent now, but every now and then his mouth moves like he’s speaking. Castiel is sitting up by now, leaning on one elbow.

Just as Castiel is beginning to believe that the worst us over, the thrashing picks up, much more intensely than before, and Dean _shouts_.

“Sammy!” His voice is terrified. Castiel cringes. Dean is surely dreaming up awful ends to the apocalypse that are not as ideal as what truly played out. Everything in Cas wants to wake Dean, shake him from the awful alternate realities his subconscious is plaguing him with.

But he can’t. It’s not his place.

Dean falls out of bed, that first night. He groans and rubs his back, panting heavily like he’s been running. Castiel closes his eyes.

There is a brief moment of quiet before Dean says, “Castiel?” He is obviously awake. His voice is very small, tentative. Hopeful? – Castiel doubts it.

He pretends to be asleep.

*

Months pass. They do a lot of good, though it never feels rewarding. There seems to be some missing element that would make everything even the slightest bit fulfilling, but Castiel does not have the slightest idea what that might be. He hasn’t felt a sense of purpose since long before his Grace was torn away. Time passes because it has nothing better to do; likewise, Castiel fights alongside Dean for the same reason.

So he tells himself.

*

It’s Thanksgiving’s eve, six months since the apocalypse and four since Sam left for college when Dean tosses Castiel his trench coat and says, “Let’s go get drunk.”

Castiel stares blankly at Dean for a moment, unable to register the suggestion (– command?). Dean goes out to bars often, gets drunk and goes home with strangers regularly, but never has he offered to take Castiel with him. While Castiel has always harbored a small spark of curiosity about it, he’s never been discontent to stay at the motel. He vividly remembers the first time Dean coerced him into visiting a similar den of iniquity and the resulting awkwardness.

He does, however, also remember how hard Dean laughed and how bright his smile was. It is this memory that has Castiel slipping on his coat as he says, “Okay.”

It’s not a bar, as Castiel assumed it would be, but a club that Dean brings him to. Castiel is only aware of this because of the occasional movies he and Dean watch when cases are sparse. The bright lights and loud music make Castiel uncomfortable, but he makes no indication of it. He wants Dean to enjoy this.

Castiel notices two things. One, the club is not as packed as he would have guessed. He figures this is either because films grossly exaggerated things, or it is a slow night. He remembers that today is a human holiday and decides it must be the latter. It dawns on him that Dean may have requested his company because human holidays emphasize family, and Dean is lonely.

The second thing Castiel notices is that the majority of the men in the club are dancing with men, and the majority of the women are dancing with women. A gay club, then. Castiel wonders what assumptions Dean has made about him because of their visit to the whore house. Castiel himself has never given his sexuality much thought, but he does now. He thinks perhaps that he's daring to now because this vessel is now well and truly his. He looks around and finds both men and women aesthetically pleasing, but everything else is uncharted territory. Castiel... knows nothing of sex.

 

They reach the bar and Castiel doesn't catch what Dean orders, only that it's two of them. He smiles at Castiel. It is good to see Dean smile.

 

“I'm getting you ripped, and hopefully laid. Maybe you'll be more fun once you've discovered the mysterious world of sex and alcohol.”

 

Castiel would like to point out that Dean hasn't exactly been very pleasant to be around, either, but he doesn't.

 

Instead he says, “Are you gay, Dean?”

 

Dean snorts, but Castiel notices he looks the slightest bit uncomfortable.

 

“If you're going to fall, Cas, you can't exactly judge-”

 

“I am not judging you, Dean. Your sexuality is irrelevant. I was simply curious.”

 

Dean visibly relaxes.

 

“I sleep with chicks. I sleep with dudes. I don't see the point in labeling it.”

 

The bartender, a typical brunette butch-looking girl with a short spiky haircut and a triangle tattoo, hands them their drinks. She informs them with a smile that the gentlemen across the bar have paid for it for them. Dean leans forward a bit, catches their eye, and winks.

 

“You're not talking to them until you're hammered,” Dean informs Cas, “and now that you're human I think I can actually manage to get you drunk.”

 

Dean tries, but Castiel does not like the taste of liquor. He hates the way it burns going down, hates how sinful and awful and  _wrong_ it feels. Dean drinks everything Castiel doesn't and successfully gets  _himself_ drunk. As the night goes on, he looks broody, not happy. Castiel thinks he must have done something wrong.

 

He leans close to Dean and whispers, “Should we leave?” and Dean gives a dazed nod. Castiel helps him up and drags him through the dance floor.

 

*

 

Dean is dazed when they arrive at the motel room. He's vaguely aware of hands tugging off his shoes and pulling off his shirt, replacing it with one much softer, the one he sleeps in.

 

Blearily, he says, “Sam?” There is a deep sigh that is decidedly  _not_  Sam and he forces himself to focus. It's Cas, not Sam, who's looking at him with a furrowed brow.

 

“You can't sleep in your jeans, Dean,” Cas says tiredly. “I think your personal space rules prevent me from doing it myself.”

 

Dean laughs at this because, for whatever reason, it's funny, fucking hilarious and he decides that Cas is an awesome friend. Cas looks confused as hell and Dean laughs more until a tiny, hesitant smile forms on Cas' lips.

 

“If I throw up, catch me,” Dean slurs. It makes zero sense, but he hopes Cas gets it.

 

“Of course,” Cas replies, and Dean grins.

 

“Was s'posed to get y'drunk,” he says, “I fucked up.”

 

Castiel shakes his head.

 

“I didn't want to.”

 

“So why'd you come?” Dean asks in a tone that might have been sharp and accusatory if Dean wasn't nearly giggling.

 

“Because you asked me to.”

 

Dean thinks that this is very fucking deep – maybe – and hopes he remembers it. He thinks maybe he should write it down. He doesn't say anything at that, just stares and Cas stares back because that's what they  _do_. Finally, Dean glances at his phone, which he'd left at the motel earlier.

 

It reads, _One missed call: Sammy._

 

Dean tosses the phone back where it was.

 

“Thanks for stayin’, Cas,” he says.

 

“Staying?”

 

“With me. You coulda left. Sammy left. You -”

 

“You should sleep, Dean,” Cas says, gently cutting Dean off.

 

Somehow or another, they both end up crashing on Dean's bed. It feels like when Sam was small and would crawl into Dean's bed when he was scared, only backwards. He sleeps like a brick and only wakes briefly when he feels the bed dip and Castiel stumble to his own bed.

 

It is the last time they will share a bed together for quite some time.

 

They never talk about it, but things are different after, more like they used to be. Dean is less stiff, less militant. Cas gives in a little to his humanity. They finally have that monster movie marathon.

 

It doesn't atone for that nearly tangible  _absence_  though, not at all. Specifically when the nightmares keep it firmly in the forefront of his mind.

 

 

*******

 

One night, Dean wakes to the sound of someone dying. Rather, it is the sort of agonized scream that only someone who is having a limb or vital organ slowly wrenched from his body could produce. He sits up in a flash, glancing around in the darkness and he sees Cas sitting up and trembling with body shaking shudders.

 

Dean's out of bed immediately. He stumbles in the dark to Cas' side, panicked eyes trying to access the situation. Cas is making a noise like he's dry heaving, leaning forward as his bare shoulders shake. He's clutching at them fiercely, and Dean thinks he can see blood from the sheer intensity of Cas' nails in his own flesh.

 

His heaving is broken up by noises only someone being slaughtered could produce. Dean is terrified. It sounds like Cas is dying, and Dean can't handle losing Cas. This realization hits him hard, and his heart pounds in his chest. He needs to figure out what the hell is going on.

 

He thinks it's probably that storm he almost gave up expecting.

 

“Cas!” Dean says, forcefully yanking Cas' hands away from his back so that he can do no further harm to himself. He holds both hands clasped between his own, squeezing as though it will help.

 

“Cas, Cas, stay with me, man,” he says urgently. For the first time, Cas meets Dean's eyes. His bright blue eyes are contorted with pain.

 

“They're gone,” he gasps like he's drowning, “they're gone, they're gone.”

 

Dean pulled Cas' hands close to his own face, against his lips.

 

“Who's gone, Cas?”

 

Cas shook his head furiously, overcome with some mixture of fear an emotion that was devastating.

 

“My wings,” he said, in a voice only a dying man could produce. “They're gone. My wings are gone.”

 

Cas didn't die that night, but he did spend hours writhing in pain from unseen wounds. Dean sat on the floor by Cas' bed the whole while, cupping Cas' hands in his own. He eventually fell asleep there, neck craned at a weird angle to rest on the bed. He was only able to succumb to sleep once Cas' shuddering faded off.

 

From that night on, Cas was entirely human.

 

 

*

 

Like most things, they never talk about it. The extent of their acknowledging that night was Dean asking Cas if he was okay the following morning. Cas had said, “I don't know what your definition of okay is,” in a tired, battered voice. Dean figured this was the most of an answer he was going to get.

 

Their routine is unchanged. If anything, Cas fights even harder than he did before. Dean understands. There's a certain amount of intensity that only loss can bring.

 

They get a call one day from a number Dean doesn't recognize. He answers it anyway; calls from strangers are usually fellow hunters calling for back up or people Bobby has directed to Dean and Cas to help with a case. In this instance, it's the latter.

 

“I need help,” is the first thing that the female voice on the other end says. Dean chuckles.

 

“Hello to you, too. What's your nightmare? Ghost? Curse? Douchey politician?”

 

“Ghost, I think,” the girl says unsurely. Dean realizes that the voice is maddeningly familiar. He strains his brain to place a name and memory for it, but he can't quite put his finger on it.”

 

“Has it killed anyone?”

 

“No, but it tried to. My friend... she left the house right away, but it followed her to her new one. I'm scared for her.”

 

“She probably owns something that belonged to the ghost,” Dean decides. “What was your name?”

 

“I'm in upstate New York. Are you far from here?”

 

Dean chuckles.

 

“Nothing's too far, lady. But we happen to be about three hours away, in Pennsylvania. We'll be there soon.”

 

She gives him her address and he saves her number. Only then does he realize that he never got her name.

 

*

 

The area is just as familiar as her voice, but Dean still can't place it. They agree to meet in a downtown coffee house to discuss details. The December chill is cold, and well-brewed coffee sounds like a great idea. Cas' old trench coat has been replaced with a nearly identical one. It looks weird to see it paired with a scarf and beany, though. Cas isn't accustomed to being cold. He likes layering.

 

When they walk into the cafe, they look around for a girl with black hair in twin braids. When they find her, Dean's heart practically stops.

 

The girl is Sarah Blake, an art dealer from years and years ago that Dean and Sam saved from a cursed painting. The thing that causes Dean to stop short, though, is the fact that Sam is with her. Sam’s back is to them, so he doesn't see them at first. Dean's first reaction is to turn around and walk out, but Cas grabs his arm gently. From their table, Sarah catches sight of them and waves them over. Cas leads him without much force to the table. Dean lets himself be lead, feeling numb.

 

“Long time no see!” she says with a grin once they reach the table. Sam finally looks up – and his face is a picture of surprise.

 

“Dean?” he says, looking incredulous. He looks back and forth between Sarah and Dean so quickly it's almost comical.

 

Cas looks at Sarah. “It seems that someone has been scheming.” He’s wearing an expression that Dean can’t decipher.

 

Sarah laughs. “Maybe just a little. I got tired of Sam moping around and pining for his big brother. You both need to get over this. Sit down, Dean,” she says firmly.

 

She is very convincing. Dean sits, as does Cas. An awkward silence takes over the table for a moment, but Sarah won't have it.

 

“You're both being immature,” she says sharply. “Dean, stop pouting about your baby bird leaving the nest. Sam, stop feeling sorry for yourself. You guys should have called each other months ago.”

 

“I called on Thanksgiving!” Sam says indignantly, carefully avoiding Dean's eyes.

 

Sarah snorts.

 

“You were drunk, Sam. It doesn't count.” She sighs, then, looking at both of them. “I want you guys to be happy,” she says, “You can't be happy without each other in your lives. It's been months. _Get over it_.”

 

Dean and Sam exchange a heavy look, meeting each other’s eyes for the first time since Dean arrived. When put in such simple terms, their months and months of silence seem… petty. Childish. Dean is almost embarrassed. If the sheepish look on Sam’s face is any indication, he’s feeling the same way. Dean heaves a deep sigh and sits back in his chair.

 

“Bobby gave you my number? He was in on this?”

 

Sarah smiles. “Sort of. He gave me Cas’ number when I told him that I wanted to get you two in the same room.”

 

Dean looks at Cas, surprised.

 

“You?”

 

Cas looks at his hands, which are resting on the table.

 

“I may have been involved in planning this,” he says quietly. “I am tired of seeing you unhappy, Dean.”

 

“He made sure you guys were close by when I called.”

 

“But not so close as to be suspicious,” Cas added.

 

Sam shakes his head slowly in disbelief. “My own girlfriend, conspiring against me with my old friend.”

 

“Right?” Dean says, sounding equally incredulous. He runs a hand over his short hair. “Downright treacherous, man.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re horrible,” Sarah says dismissively, “Point is, you guys are here. It’s time to work it out.”

 

Dean looks over his brother. He looks like he’s recently had a haircut – Dean figures that’s Sarah’s doing – and he’s wearing a white pullover hoodie with the letters NYU written in dark violet on the front. It takes him a second to realize that it’s a hoodie from Sam’s _college_. His university.

 

His dream.

 

Dean thinks back years and years ago, back to when Sam was a junior in high school and working his ass off in every class. John never noticed, but Dean did. They never talked about it, but Dean knew that Sam was getting his straight A’s for a reason. He wanted to get out, to move on and be _normal_. Dean had never felt so conflicted in his life, watching his little brother do everything in his power to _leave_. Yet, despite the aching, gnawing feeling of upcoming abandonment, Dean had been proud. His brother was going places he never could. Dean would never admit it – he was too selfish – but a small part of him was happy for Sam.

 

That small part was creeping back now, shouting at him that this is _good_. He wished he could silence it, but it was growing louder and louder, practically shouting.

 

“How’s college?” he asks. The words come unbidden from his lips. He finds that he is genuinely curious. He is vaguely aware that his voice cracked a little on the question… but whatever.

 

Sam licks his lips and echoes Dean’s sigh. “Good,” he says, “Really good.” There’s emotion behind these words that Dean can pick up on immediately. No one knows his brother better than he does. Dean’s growing more and more repentant.

 

He clears his throat.

 

“That’s good.”

 

“That’s good?” Sam says, jaw nearly dropping. He catches the action, though, and clamps it shut. Dean looks away, looks at Cas. Cas is still studiously looking at his hands. He fidgets a bit when he feels Dean looking at him. Dean turns back to Sam.

 

“I was a dick,” he says at last, “I want you to be happy, Sammy. Even if it’s without…” He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence ‘ _without me_ ’. There’s a lump in his throat.

 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Sarah cuts in before Sam can reply. “You and Cas could rent a flat somewhere. Stay in one –”

 

“No,” Dean says immediately, anticipating what she’s going to say. He’s not having _that_.

 

She narrows her eyes at him. She looks mildly frightening.

 

“Let me finish my damn sentence,” she says irritably. “You wouldn’t have to stop hunting, Dean. I would never ask you that – neither would Sam.” _He already did,_ Dean almost cuts in, but he holds his tongue. Sarah’s tough shit. Better to let her finish. “You could… travel. There’s always cases. You and Cas can make sure the tri-state area is the safest place in the country. The only difference is that you’d have a home base. And home base will be close to us.”

 

It doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea, but Dean doesn’t know how to admit it. He’s already admitted he was wrong once in this conversation – it’s asking a bit much to agree to a life changing decision in the same one. And… there’s something else, too. A part of him doesn’t like the idea of moving to New York just because his brother is here. He’s not particularly fond of the city, and upstate New York feels so… isolated. He thinks this might be a chance to be less codependent, to branch out – and he’s starting to accept that this might be a good thing.

 

If he agrees to do this, he has to do it right.

 

“I don’t want to live in New York,” he says. It’s not a no, it’s not a yes. It’s a carefully neutral answer. Cas looks up, then, and Dean can feel him looking at him.

 

“I have an uncle who owns real estate in Pennsylvania,” Sarah says quietly, like she’s afraid they’ve reached the dealbreaker in their conversation. Her tone resembles the sort one might use to calm a spooked horse. “He’s been looking for tenants in a studio apartment he rents out for a while now. Rent would be cheap – dirt cheap, honestly. He’s got more than enough money; he just doesn’t want to see it rot. It would be small, but…”

 

“We’re used to small,” Dean says softly. He looks at Sam, who has this heartbreakingly hopeful expression on his face. With this one look, Dean realizes he’s already made the decision. It’s been made for him, really.

 

“Is that a yes?” Sarah asks cautiously.

 

Dean shrugs.

 

“I guess.”

 

“What?” Sam says, leaning forward so quickly his hair bounces a little. It’s borderline comical.

 

“It’s a yes, dumbass. Jesus Christ. I’ll do it, okay? Not saying it again.” It takes a moment before he realizes he hasn’t consulted Cas at all in this matter. He looks at Cas.

 

“If that’s okay with you, man?” he asks. He kind of feels like a tool. Cas looks surprised that Dean even bothered to ask, which kind of makes Dean feel like even more of a tool.

 

“I’ll follow wherever you go, Dean. I want you to be happy.” The genuine sincerity in this statement is kind of overwhelming – Dean doesn’t want to analyze the emotion there, the depth of it, just yet. Not now. So he focuses on the main point, which is the fact that everyone is in solidarity for once.

 

Dean has his brother back.

 

“So,” Sarah says, standing to her feet, “you boys have some major catching up to do. Cas? Why don’t we go for a walk? I’ll show you around.”

 

Cas stands as well.

 

“Thank you, Sarah. I would love that.”

 

The two of them exit the café, leaving Dean alone with his brother. There’s an incredibly awkward silence that stretches out to an uncomfortable amount of time until Dean finally breaks it.

 

“I told you to marry that girl,” Dean says with a smirk, “Glad you finally listened to my advice.”

 

Sam turns red. “We’re not married, Dean!”

 

Dean snickers. “You will be,” he says in a cavalier tone, brushing off Sam’s blushing protests. They fall into easy conversation after that, and everything slowly begins to feel normal again. Different, yes. Incredibly different. But… normal.

 

It’s a good feeling.

 

Sam tells Dean about how he and Sarah met in an Art Appreciation class at NYU, where she was taking the course just for the sake of learning more about her profession. They instantly recognized each other; the connection was there immediately. It was Sarah who asked Sam out to their first date, as soon as class was over. Dean laughs.

 

“Sure you can handle her, man?”

 

Sam’s expression is priceless. “I sure hope so.”

 

Dean hopes so, too. _Happy_ looks good on Sam.

 

*

 

Sharing an apartment with an Angel of the Lord is weird. The studio flat is tiny, as expected, but it has a kitchen and an incredibly comfortable bed. The couch, where Dean sleeps, is big and soft, the kind you can sink into and stay for hours. Dean’s never had a kitchen or a couch before, not since he was four years old. It’s weird. It feels domestic in a way that Dean is not entirely comfortable with, especially because it’s with Cas. Cas seems out of place in this sort of environment.

 

Days become weeks. They’re gone more often than not – as Sarah put it, the flat is just home base. Dean’s not even entirely sure _why_ they have a home base when they still travel so much, but it feels like… like something. Almost like having a home. And it’s close to Sam, which makes _Dean_ feel close to Sam. So he doesn’t move out of the place, doesn’t let the strangeness of it force him out. After a while he and Cas start to spend more time there.

 

Time is changing a lot of things.

 

As Christmas approaches, Dean starts to give way to a little gloominess. It’s not the bitter, bruised sort of angry depression that had plagued him up until he reconnected with Sam at the coffee shop, but it’s an achy sort of thing that mostly feels like he’s been slighted. He’s in contact with his brother now, which is awesome, but… he rarely sees him, not like he’d expected when he took this offer. Sam has his own life, and Dean is trying to build his own. It’s difficult and Dean’s not entirely sure that he _wants_ to.

 

He has to take what he can get, though, and right now it’s text messages and phone calls. If anything, he’s perpetually sulking now. Cas, to his credit, is dealing with it in stride. Every now and then, Dean will give the guy a random smile without explanation, letting him know that he’s grateful. Dean doesn’t know how to _say_ it, doesn’t know how to thank the angel for sticking with him through all of this bullshit. The flat would be too empty if Cas wasn’t there.

 

 

*

 

"Why don't we have a tree inside, Dean?"

Dean glances away from the TV, where he's been mindlessly channel surfing through endless Christmas specials for about a half hour, and looks at Cas. The not-quite-angel is sitting on the floor beside the couch Dean sits on, looking outside distractedly. His attention is fixed on a car stopped at a traffic light; a big, thick Christmas tree is tied to its top with many ropes. The faintest bit of snow is beginning to fall, lightly dusting the tree. Dean and Cas can't hear from inside, but Dean wouldn't be surprised if the family in it was pumping Christmas tunes loud like it's classic rock and singing along out of tune in synchrony like all conventional families do during the holidays. Dean groans and clicks off the tv, standing and tossing the remote on the couch, aggravated. Cas looks up at him and tilts his head.

"God, Cas, not you too."

"I don't understand."

 

Dean doesn’t know it now – there’s no _way_ he could know it, no way he could see it coming – but this is the moment where everything changes. It’s a subtle shift in the universe, in himself, in the man across from him, and it’s everything. It’s the moment that will bring the tree, that will bring the mistletoe, that will bring the sweater, that will bring a new beginning.

 

Dean doesn't actually _want_ to fall in love, but how is he supposed to know it’ll all start with a goddamn tree?


End file.
